


The Last Time

by truereichenbach



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Character Death, I'm Sorry, TW: Drug Abuse, TW: Suicide, The lying detective, if you cry let me know we can cry together, tld au, tw: death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 16:46:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9450833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truereichenbach/pseuds/truereichenbach
Summary: The Lying Detective au: Lestrade finds Sherlock instead of John. The detective loses his blogger.headcanon credit: addignisherlock on tumblr





	

John hasn’t shown up yet.

But he will, he always does, he’s John Watson, the best and wisest human being Sherlock has ever known so of course he will come but now black is creeping into the edges of his vision and his heart is thudding and his internal processor is slowly shutting down and _John still isn’t here_ -

And suddenly someone is pulling Culverton Smith off him -

_John!_

Someone is twisting his arms -

_John?_

Someone is shaking him, someone is calling his name and his heart thuds in a very bit-not-good way but everything is fine because John -

_Not John_.

Lestrade is shoving Smith out the door with another of Scotland Yard’s finest, Lestrade is phoning Mycroft, Lestrade is calling for an ambulance for him but all Sherlock can think is _John didn’t come_. Even after he did everything Mary said he needed to, even after he went to hell, John didn’t come, _of course he didn’t you fool, why would he? It’s your fault he’s hurt, your fault he’s grieving, your fault Mary is dead and John hasn’t come_.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock spots John’s cane and turns away, squeezing his eyes shut and almost, _almost_ wishing Smith had finished what he’d started. He nods dumbly when Lestrade asks him a question, not registering a word being said.

The case is over. The great Sherlock Holmes has done it again, only this time no one was there beside him and he’s lost, he’s lost without his blogger. He wanders around Baker Street, numb with cold and guilt, texting John every forty-three minutes.

There are no replies.

_Does John delete my texts now too?_

It almost makes him smile.

Even in pain, Dr. Watson can make him smile.

Fifty seven hours and nineteen minutes since he came back home, _no, to Baker Street, it’s not home anymore,_ Sherlock dials John’s number, fingers fumbling, hands shaking, voice cracking as he mumbles _I’m sorry_ under his breath over and over.

No one picks up. It goes to voice mail.

Sherlock puts down the phone before John’s prerecorded message can cheerily blare through the tiny speakers.

He reaches for the syringe.

Gasping, spinning, everything goes fuzzy.

When he comes to, Mrs. Hudson is crouching in front of him, frightened and teary-eyed, _Oh Sherlock, please don’t do this, please, do you need me to ring Mycroft, have you called John, oh Lord Sherlock_ -

He pushes her away weakly, curling into a ball on the sofa.

Eventually she leaves.

They always do.

_John did_.

And every time he thinks his name, it’s like a kick to his gut. He’d take the kicks over the silence anyway. He would rather have the pain of John screaming horrible things at him than the nothingness of John’s silence. He would take it, he would take it all. He would take whatever John gave him.

Missing John is like a knife between the ribs, slowly twisting, day in, day out, every minute, every second. Only the seven percent solution dulls the pain. Over and over, like a magic pill that makes everything hurt less.

Thirty nine days, four hours and fifty two minutes after the Culverton Smith incident, Sherlock picks up the syringe for the last time.

_This is it, the grand exit, the true Reichenbach. This is the frailty of genius, isn’t it? It needs an audience._

_So does love._

As he draws back the filthy sleeve of his dressing gown, he takes one last look at John’s cane, secreted away under his Belstaff, Lestrade having purposefully turned a blind eye to Sherlock slipping it into his coat. Like distorted drops of water, memories filter through the ruins of his mind palace from the wing he gave John.

_Afghanistan or Iraq? We hardly know each other. The address is 221B Baker Street. Angelo’s. The first time John killed for him._ The feeling that Sherlock had felt as he had looked at Dr. Watson, his doctor, strong and steady and warm and always, _always_ there till Sherlock drove him away forever.

He clenches his teeth. No more. No more.

This time the darkness is welcome.

The phone never rings.

Sherlock Holmes takes his last bow.


End file.
